...And there she was, encamped in the front reading room, chatting and smoking. My heart did a little dance. My eyes blinked from surprise and relief, to see her again. She seemed spot-lit and radiant as I slow-walked past her, urging myself to stop, but not stopping.
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...And there she was, encamped in the front reading room, chatting and smoking. My heart did a little dance. My eyes blinked from surprise and relief, to see her again. She seemed spot-lit and radiant as I slow-walked past her, urging myself to stop, but not stopping.
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I was taught early on that there is no theater like NYC theater. And also that there is no glitz like NYC glitz, no corned beef like NYC corned beef (or bagels, or pickles, or rye bread), and no swagger and sass like they can do in NYC. I have always been a rube in Gotham.
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Let us set aside the mechanical act of moving the clock hands forward, and think instead on the clock's underlying connection to the seasonal changes in our natural world...
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My glasses are gone, but the Retrospect survives.
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"A farm family ambience, sifting compost piles of memory, tilling soils of a late lamented culture..."
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I've always liked trains, especially those that are clean and fast, and headed south to Pennsylvania Station in New York...
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Happily the forecast is for more and bigger wind.
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I was wrapping up my three racing day visit, up to my elbows and knees in routines I had wallowed in most every summer since 1975.
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May my mother not box my ears. May the traditionalists in the party crowd notice nothing amiss (except possibly rouge highlights in the salami crust).
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I hope I can order the salami early enough to avoid the cost of last minute delivery via cab from New York City.
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Call me ungrateful, but I lacked a plan for the balance of the dawn, or for the rest of my life which stretched before me like the enormous ocean, and I was alone.
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"And what good news: a new Tom Stoppard play, “Leopoldstadt”, is opening at Broadway’s Longacre Theater this fall..."
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We circled and bobbed at his urging—arms, wings and paws in unison—as a giant red sun rose out of the water.
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Maybe I should have subpoenaed my grandchildren as character witnesses?
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I liked the old fisherman from the beginning. He sits comfortably on a body-contoured stump, exuding patience and serenity, lightly holding his fishing pole. His jug is alongside (maybe for fish storage, maybe for refreshment). He wears leather strapped sandals, a broad sun hat, and a flowing green and blue robe. His white beard and hair suggest the wisdom of age. He is contemplative, certainly in no hurry. He may be surprised that his serenity has been interrupted by the arrival of the fish.
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Which reminds me of the old joke of the waiter who, serving a table of picky, impatient, bossy, demeaning, and complaining diners, asks the question: “Is anything ok?”
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My birth certificate name is "Jonathan David", relatively common among English-speaking Ashkenazi Jews, and prevalent among sons in my father's ancestral line, anecdotally descending from a 19th century Vilnian rabbi of blessed memory, named, via transliteration, Nosson Dovid.
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My conclusion from this is that we, or many of us, write for the satisfaction of having our words survive the birth canal, and be launched into the stream of time.
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...as the ring transitioned from the world of the real and visible to the underwater world of Neptune and Ariel and Moby Dick...
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“Enough is enough,” I said. I released from the restaurant booth and made a break for it...
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The miracle of going back to sleep.
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I recognize that all bannings are not the handiwork of the ignoramus class.
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“Thank you, doctor,” I said via my own expressive raised eyebrow, accented by genuflection. I went back outside.
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My sometimes vigilant parents rushed to the television button a couple of beats too late to protect me from this grim portal on life and death.
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But the pandemic has exposed and eroded me, along with the world I live in.
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When I think of photo booths, I think of freaking out in an MRI tube.
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I’ll take a clean, business-like, functioning, reliable, no nostalgia Hilton Garden Inn anytime/anywhere.
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Death is an impenetrable wall. I can etch messages into my side of it, yearning, regretting, remembering with exquisite fondness her smile...
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Sometimes, as in the case of my high school math class, time stopped.
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“We are your bad conscience,” said one of the leaflets. “Everyone wants to exonerate himself from his share of the blame … But it cannot be done: everyone is guilty! guilty! guilty!”"
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“Moon river, wider than a mile
I’m crossing you in style some day
Oh, dream maker,
You heart breaker
Wherever you’re going, I’m going your way…"
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...notwithstanding any other food fear, sentiment, fixation, longing, dream, taboo, burp, or memory I may have or ever had, there will always be the wondrous egg, scrambled, poached, boiled, easy-over, omeleted, cooked fancy or plain, my best breakfast friend.
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I tied piles of accumulated newspapers together to form a solid block of newspaper, which I used as a guest stoop.
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On Saturday morning I awoke clear-eyed and bushy-tailed, eager to write something in response to this week’s GROUP PHOTOS prompt. But I was distracted from writing by a series of aggravating and delaying techno snags.
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We looked at each other with relief and amazement.
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I’ve known families who would pile into the car every summer for a back and forth, like it was the greatest thing. But that ain’t my gig. It’s like once I ate a bad scallop, and no more scallops after that, wrapped in bacon or otherwise.
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I’ve missed my chance to take a walk today. Now it’s raining, and freezing, and the forecast says it’s only going to get worse.
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To the extent that “comic relief” need not cause one to snot in laughter, need not require a banana peel to go ass over teakettle on...
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A grown son is one of life’s rewards. Once I could carry him on my shoulders, he holding my ears. Now he towers over me, and knows how to do things, talk to people, manage situations, has a family of his own, makes a living, and (surprisingly, considering his gene pool) he can dance. It is thrilling. Why would I want to screw up this good thing by taking him to Vegas?
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A Change of Fortune
Prompted By Timing is Everything
/ Stories
...And there she was, encamped in the front reading room, chatting and smoking. My heart did a little dance. My eyes blinked from surprise and relief, to see her again. She seemed spot-lit and radiant as I slow-walked past her, urging myself to stop, but not stopping.
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They Aren’t All Stoppard
Prompted By Theater
/ Stories
I was taught early on that there is no theater like NYC theater. And also that there is no glitz like NYC glitz, no corned beef like NYC corned beef (or bagels, or pickles, or rye bread), and no swagger and sass like they can do in NYC. I have always been a rube in Gotham.
Read More
The Pagan Ritual of Moving the Clock Hands
Prompted By Changing Times
/ Stories
Let us set aside the mechanical act of moving the clock hands forward, and think instead on the clock's underlying connection to the seasonal changes in our natural world...
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My Missing Eye Glasses
Prompted By Ceremony
/ Stories
My glasses are gone, but the Retrospect survives.
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Bounteous Fruits
Prompted By Retrospect Retrospective
/ Stories
"A farm family ambience, sifting compost piles of memory, tilling soils of a late lamented culture..."
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A Selection of Trains and Train Platforms
Prompted By Planes and Trains
/ Stories
I've always liked trains, especially those that are clean and fast, and headed south to Pennsylvania Station in New York...
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My Nest Twigs Are Blowing In The Wind
Prompted By Feathering Our Nests
/ Stories
Happily the forecast is for more and bigger wind.
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A Very Expensive Nose
Prompted By Priciest Purchase
/ Stories
I was wrapping up my three racing day visit, up to my elbows and knees in routines I had wallowed in most every summer since 1975.
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Teacher: Here and Now
Prompted By Favorite Teacher
/ Stories
May my mother not box my ears. May the traditionalists in the party crowd notice nothing amiss (except possibly rouge highlights in the salami crust).
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My Annoying To-Do List
Prompted By Procrastination
/ Stories
I hope I can order the salami early enough to avoid the cost of last minute delivery via cab from New York City.
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Once Upon A Time (Revisited)
Prompted By Do You Believe in Magic?
/ Stories
Call me ungrateful, but I lacked a plan for the balance of the dawn, or for the rest of my life which stretched before me like the enormous ocean, and I was alone.
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A Good Show is Hard to Sleep Through
Prompted By Memorable Performances
/ Stories
"And what good news: a new Tom Stoppard play, “Leopoldstadt”, is opening at Broadway’s Longacre Theater this fall..."
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Once Upon A Time
Prompted By Do You Believe in Magic?
/ Stories
We circled and bobbed at his urging—arms, wings and paws in unison—as a giant red sun rose out of the water.
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My Driving Record (Updated)
Prompted By Car Trouble
/ Stories
Maybe I should have subpoenaed my grandchildren as character witnesses?
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The Old Fisherman
Prompted By What I Own That's Older Than I Am
/ Stories
I liked the old fisherman from the beginning. He sits comfortably on a body-contoured stump, exuding patience and serenity, lightly holding his fishing pole. His jug is alongside (maybe for fish storage, maybe for refreshment). He wears leather strapped sandals, a broad sun hat, and a flowing green and blue robe. His white beard and hair suggest the wisdom of age. He is contemplative, certainly in no hurry. He may be surprised that his serenity has been interrupted by the arrival of the fish.
Read More
Moe the Stooge
Prompted By Broadcast News
/ Stories
Which reminds me of the old joke of the waiter who, serving a table of picky, impatient, bossy, demeaning, and complaining diners, asks the question: “Is anything ok?”
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What’s My Name?
Prompted By What's in a Name
/ Stories
My birth certificate name is "Jonathan David", relatively common among English-speaking Ashkenazi Jews, and prevalent among sons in my father's ancestral line, anecdotally descending from a 19th century Vilnian rabbi of blessed memory, named, via transliteration, Nosson Dovid.
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One Small Droplet
Prompted By Why We Write
/ Stories
My conclusion from this is that we, or many of us, write for the satisfaction of having our words survive the birth canal, and be launched into the stream of time.
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Lost in Translucence (a Patois)
Prompted By Lost in Translation
/ Stories
...as the ring transitioned from the world of the real and visible to the underwater world of Neptune and Ariel and Moby Dick...
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Happy Birthday To Me
Prompted By Special Birthdays
/ Stories
“Enough is enough,” I said. I released from the restaurant booth and made a break for it...
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Sleep, How Strange It Is
Prompted By Sleepy Time
/ Stories
The miracle of going back to sleep.
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Shiva Near the Corned Beef
Prompted By Banned Books
/ Stories
I recognize that all bannings are not the handiwork of the ignoramus class.
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Most Lost Eyeglasses Are Found
Prompted By The Eyes Have It
/ Stories
“Thank you, doctor,” I said via my own expressive raised eyebrow, accented by genuflection. I went back outside.
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Dark Caves
Prompted By Refugees
/ Stories
My sometimes vigilant parents rushed to the television button a couple of beats too late to protect me from this grim portal on life and death.
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Pandemic Blues
Prompted By Pandemic, Year Three
/ Stories
But the pandemic has exposed and eroded me, along with the world I live in.
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My MRI Photo Booth
Prompted By Photo Booths
/ Stories
When I think of photo booths, I think of freaking out in an MRI tube.
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Spare Me The Quaintness
Prompted By Hotels, Motels, Inns, and Hostels
/ Stories
I’ll take a clean, business-like, functioning, reliable, no nostalgia Hilton Garden Inn anytime/anywhere.
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The Dead Mouse (and her Dead Baby)
Prompted By Basements and Attics
/ Stories
Death is an impenetrable wall. I can etch messages into my side of it, yearning, regretting, remembering with exquisite fondness her smile...
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Time Stopped
Prompted By Time
/ Stories
Sometimes, as in the case of my high school math class, time stopped.
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An Example of Resistance
Prompted By Scouting
/ Stories
“We are your bad conscience,” said one of the leaflets. “Everyone wants to exonerate himself from his share of the blame … But it cannot be done: everyone is guilty! guilty! guilty!”"
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“…moon river and me”
Prompted By One Song That Moves Me
/ Stories
“Moon river, wider than a mile
I’m crossing you in style some day
Oh, dream maker,
You heart breaker
Wherever you’re going, I’m going your way…"
Read More
The Shelf Life of Eggs
Prompted By Comfort Food
/ Stories
...notwithstanding any other food fear, sentiment, fixation, longing, dream, taboo, burp, or memory I may have or ever had, there will always be the wondrous egg, scrambled, poached, boiled, easy-over, omeleted, cooked fancy or plain, my best breakfast friend.
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A Block of Newspaper
Prompted By Newspapers
/ Stories
I tied piles of accumulated newspapers together to form a solid block of newspaper, which I used as a guest stoop.
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My Television Froze
Prompted By Group Photos
/ Stories
On Saturday morning I awoke clear-eyed and bushy-tailed, eager to write something in response to this week’s GROUP PHOTOS prompt. But I was distracted from writing by a series of aggravating and delaying techno snags.
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Memories of the Blizzard
Prompted By Snowy Days
/ Stories
We looked at each other with relief and amazement.
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I Want A Detour
Prompted By Highways and Byways
/ Stories
I’ve known families who would pile into the car every summer for a back and forth, like it was the greatest thing. But that ain’t my gig. It’s like once I ate a bad scallop, and no more scallops after that, wrapped in bacon or otherwise.
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My Christmas Tradition (with Prologue)
Prompted By Holiday Letters
/ Stories
I’ve missed my chance to take a walk today. Now it’s raining, and freezing, and the forecast says it’s only going to get worse.
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Learning “Comic Relief”
Prompted By Comic Relief
/ Stories
To the extent that “comic relief” need not cause one to snot in laughter, need not require a banana peel to go ass over teakettle on...
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The red cubes glow like fox eyes.
Father and Son Craps
Prompted By Dice
/ Stories
A grown son is one of life’s rewards. Once I could carry him on my shoulders, he holding my ears. Now he towers over me, and knows how to do things, talk to people, manage situations, has a family of his own, makes a living, and (surprisingly, considering his gene pool) he can dance. It is thrilling. Why would I want to screw up this good thing by taking him to Vegas?
Read More